


Air Tight Before We Break

by lavishsqualor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Preseries, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-05
Updated: 2011-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/pseuds/lavishsqualor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam spends his entire senior year alone. Yeah, he gets the chance to meet a girl and focus on school, but with Dean always out on hunts, it's like he's lost his one constant. He's left with nothing to do but plan his future, and that's not even the worst of it – the kicker is, Dean doesn't even seem to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Air Tight Before We Break

NOVEMBER 2000  
CHARLES CITY, IOWA

A lot of practice arguing with his father doesn’t make it any easier, and it doesn’t mean Sam enjoys it.

"Sam, you need to get over it," John says in a tone he uses when he means business. As if that deters Sam at all. He _isn't_ going to get over this.

"I'm just sick of it, Dad. Why the hell do you keep sending Dean on these stupid missions? Alone?"

"Because he can handle it. And the two of us being off the hunt is enough."

"Off the hunt?" Sam bites out, his anger mounting. He is standing by the sink in the bare-bones kitchen of the house he, Dad, and usually absent Dean are currently calling home. He’s turned away from the dishes he was washing to look at his father, face heated red and fists clenched tight at his sides, little crescents of pain beginning to shoot through his palms. "You? Off the hunt? Who are you even trying to fool?"

"Sam, you're right. I'm not off the hunt. Your mother–" John heaves in a breath. "Your mother's killer. I'm close. You know that, you know that's why we're here. I am on to something, I know it."

"Dad–"

"Your brother is doing exactly what he needs to be doing. He's helping people, people that are in danger." John glares at Sam like he thinks a look can explain the severity of the situation. "Dean is doing what we should all be doing. And if you have a problem with that, I don't want to hear about it."

Sam returns John’s gaze, deciding that he is done with this argument, since there’s no point in continuing. He’ll never get through to his dad, especially not with the way this is headed: Dad thinks Sam is an embarrassment to the family and doesn't understand how Sam can think that finishing high school is more important than hunting.

"Okay." He turns back to the sink, unclenches his fists and throws his hands into the soapy water. As he grabs one of the remaining glasses, he hears his dad make a noise of disdain and exit the kitchen. It's not long before Sam hears the engine of John’s ancient GM Sierra turn over, the sound of it heading down the driveway shortly after.

While finishing his clean-up of the kitchen, Sam suddenly feels the emptiness of the house around him, regardless of the fact that he's glad to be rid of his dad. Not that his life has ever been overflowing with people, but there has usually been one person around: Dean. And, lately, Dean's never around.

The three of them had arrived in Charles City near the end of August, under the premise that John had found a case that was going to "take a little time." It quickly became apparent to both Sam and Dean, however, that this case was more than just another hunt and that it was going to take more than just a little time. Early on, John began insisting that Dean start attacking hunts on his own, sending him first to a couple easy things within the state. But Dean's hunts started to get farther and farther away from home base. Almost immediately, the tri-state area became fair game, and before long, Dean started heading to places far off, the entire Midwest apparently open for business.

For the most part, Sam has been fine with how things are going.

He's busy, himself. He's been attending Charles City High School for three months so far, which is close to being the longest he's ever been at one school, and he’s taken full advantage of it. After all, it's his senior year, and these grades matter. He's taking several AP classes and his grades are exactly where he wants them. He's on the soccer team and in the debate club, which might end up being a little pointless, but he's starting to sketch pictures of possible futures for himself, and all of them involve fleshing out his resume.

Staying in one place and belonging to things are giving Sam the chance to actually meet people, something he isn't really used to, and he likes it. Yet, there’s still this part of him that is not okay with how his life is right now. He’s busy, probably busier than he’s ever been, but he feels an overwhelming sense of emptiness, and even though it makes him feel like a gigantic baby to admit it, he knows that it’s because Dean’s gone.

\---

  
On Monday, Sam visits the school's guidance counselor to discuss how the school year is going. Bored, and feeling like this mandatory meeting is a complete waste of time, he busies himself with looking around her office, counting the many American School Counselor Association journals lining her shelves.

He has been thinking about his future, a little, but now, in the guidance office, surrounded by pennants and posters, emblems of teenaged normality – as foreign to him as demonic protection sigils are to anybody not insane – it feels completely ridiculous, totally pointless. This isn't the world that he lives in, and under the cheery fluorescent lighting, it's a lot harder to kid himself otherwise.

Ms. Pierce, past her prime but always enthusiastic, says, “You need to start thinking about your future, Sam. With your grades, you’ve got a good ticket.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Inwardly, Sam laughs to himself – future? He isn't sure he even has one.

Regardless, he shifts part of his attention away from her shelves and begins to half-listen to Ms. Pierce’s spiel about the many options of state schools and the merit of Ivy League.

“Not only are your outstanding grades going to help you get admitted to a good school, they may just help you obtain a full scholarship.”

“Wait, what–” His attention was arrested.

“Of course, Sam. Your grades are exceptional, and your extracurricular activities will help as well.” She bends down to open a desk drawer, rifles around, then hands a stack of printouts to him. “I am being quite serious about this. And I think you should be too. You take a look at this paperwork and do some research of your own." All of his attention is on Miss Pierce, now, and the look she gives him, along with what she's saying, level Sam. "Think about your future. What is it that you want for your life? What do you want to achieve?”

He's not sure anybody has ever asked him what he wants for his life. Well, not since Mr. Wyatt, back in freshman year, which he'd pretty much written off along with all other things considered normal. “I’ll definitely do that.”

“If you have any questions, any questions at all, you come see me, okay? That’s precisely what I’m here for.”

“I will.” Sam stuffs the papers between two notebooks in his backpack before closing it up, standing, and throwing it over his shoulder. Before he leaves, he turns to say, “Thanks so much, Ms. Pierce. I appreciate it.”

As he walks down the hall, he mulls over her words. A full ride? The Ivy League? He can hardly believe it, having had it drilled into his head for so long that hunting is his only option.

Caught up in his thoughts, Sam's surprised by the touch on his forearm followed quickly by, “Hi, Sam.”

He looks down to see Julia Edwards at his side, her brown eyes shining at him, and smiles. “Hey, Julia.”

“What’s going on?" Concern crosses her face as she tucks back a few dark strands that have fallen out of her ponytail.

How is he supposed to answer that? It's not like he can tell her that he’s just realized he might actually have a chance to attend college. Right now, that’s what seniors are doing – dreaming about their futures and applying to schools.

“Well, I was just talking to Ms. Pierce. And...."

“And what, Sam? Spit it out!” She's just teasing him, though, her smile wide and hand returning to his arm to give him a small smack.

“Well, she told me she thinks I could probably get a full ride to college.”

“Sam! How amazing!” Julia drops the bag she’s been holding to lunge up and wrap her arms around his neck. When she pulls away, appearing slightly embarrassed, her lips quirk up at one side as she looks back up at him and says, “Doesn’t surprise me one bit. You’re really smart, Sam. Make an amazing lab partner, that’s for sure.”

At the mention of lab, he realizes what time it is, and that they're both running late for class. "Right, lab. Shall we?”

“We shall.” She picks up her bag, turns, and then throws a look over her shoulder. “So, are you coming or what?”

Sam isn’t used to receiving so much attention, especially not from a girl like Julia, and he finds himself unsure of what just happened between them. She's definitely flirting with him, laying it on pretty thick, and it throws him a little, but he gathers himself together and joins her as she walks down the hall.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
JULY 1989  
GREELEY, COLORADO

Sam was six years old the first time he sustained a more-than-superficial injury. At the neighborhood park with Dean, he'd eagerly played on the primary colored jungle gym. They spent the better part of an hour pumping their legs to get as high as possible on the towering swing set. Sam had only just learned how to swing that day, after following Dean's instructions carefully. He was flying, elated, grinning widely and dimples out full-force as he looked over at Dean, continuously trying to get higher than his brother.

But he was only six, easily distracted and full of energy, and he wanted to try everything the playground had to offer. Dean watched him carefully from the sidelines as he made his way across the equipment. A little while on the slide, then a little while climbing up some dome-shaped contraption. After that, Sam felt confident enough to attempt the monkey bars. With one hand strung high above his head gripping the first bar, he shouted at his older brother, "Dean! Watch!"

And Sam could see that Dean was watching. He watched as Sam made his way from one bar to the next, and he watched as about halfway through Sam's little arms began to give out.

"Sammy!" Dean called out as he started to run toward him. But his warning was futile, his rescue attempt too late, and just as he reached the bars, Sam crashed to the ground.

Dean scrambled to his knees as Sam hauled himself off the gravel and looked up at Dean with big eyes full of unshed tears.

"Oh, Sammy. Let me take a look."

Sam's knee was hurt, bad, a lot more than just a little scrape, but they had no option other than to walk the four blocks back to their motel room. Dad was gone, off hunting a wraith, and so it was up to Dean to patch Sam up. He cleansed the wound while Sam sat shaking on the toilet in the cramped bathroom. Sam winced, but never once whimpered, as Dean used a needle passed through a flame to close the gash with three stitches.

Sam was just glad that Dean had been there.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
DECEMBER 2000  
CHARLES CITY, IOWA

“So, what schools have you applied to?” Julia asks as they sit across from one another at a little table in the town’s “famous” pizzeria during their second date, one candle glowing between them atop the red-checked tablecloth.

“Well, I kind of like the idea of California, so, a few there.” He doesn’t really like sharing a lot about himself, and he's afraid it shows – can't help but wind his hands together, twisting at one finger and then the next – but he feels like he should share the little that he actually _can_.

“That’s amazing, Sam. I’m sure you’ll get in to them all and have your choice.” She smiles shyly before continuing, “But why is it that you want to get away?”

“Well, uh– Let’s just say I don’t have much tying me here.”

Sam's not stupid; he sees how that statement makes Julia sit back a little and drop her eyes to the table. “I just, I mean. I just don’t have the best thing going at home. And I hate snow."

“That’s understandable. I’ve lived here my whole life, don’t really know anything different.”

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “I’m trying to. Know something different.”

\---

  
Sam lied to Julia. He's only applied to one school, Stanford, because his heart is set on it. Now that he knows his chances of getting in, he can’t get his mind off of the school; it’s in the ideal location (a place where Dad doesn’t often hunt), for one thing, but mostly because a Stanford degree will cement him a good career.

But the conversation made him realize he should probably play it safer. That night, he fills out five more applications, all for state schools, including a couple in the Midwest.

If he can’t get a huge scholarship at Stanford, he’s sure he’ll at least get one somewhere else.

\---

  
Dean gets to Charles City just two days before Christmas, and Sam's actually surprised that he made it. He's used to Dad being gone for the holiday, but he's spent every single Christmas of his life with Dean. John leaves the morning of Christmas Eve, but Sam’s all right with it, because he’s got Dean.

That night, Sam and Dean trek out back behind the house to cut down a decent-sized pine tree before spending the rest of the evening setting it up, throwing back a few beers, and just watching whatever holiday-themed movies are on the television.

“So, Sammy,” Dean says the next morning as he walks groggily into the living room. “Got you something.”

Dean hands him a package wrapped in newspaper, and Sam promptly tears it open. It's a portable CD player, and it makes Sam grin and whoop with joy. It's perfect, particularly since there's no radio in the house. “Thanks, Dean."

Dean grins sheepishly. “It’s refurbished. But–well, just glad you like it.”

“Love it, seriously. Thanks.”

Sam crawls over to the tree to grab the package he’d brought downstairs and hands over his gift that's also wrapped in newspaper to Dean; Sam learned from the best. Dean’s eyes light up when he tears it open to find the collection of tapes Sam picked out at the town pawn shop: Motorhead, the Allman Brothers, Foreigner, Black Sabbath, AC/DC.

“Hopefully you don’t have them all already.”

“I don’t. Fuck, this is excellent.” Dean’s still got a huge grin on his face, which is the exact look Sam prefers, rather than his apprehension before he leaves or the mirthlessness when he returns from a hunt. “Do you know me or what?”

“I like to think I do.”

The rest of the day is spent training. Dean insists that just because Sam's busy with school, doesn’t mean he should let himself get rusty. So Dean sets up some targets and they practice their marksmanship – Dean's definitely a better shot than Sam – then follow it up by sparring, right there in the snow.

Afterwards, they cook up a festive dinner, complete with cranberry sauce and stuffing. And Sam knew that he missed Dean, but he really hadn’t realized how much, or even why. He really does, though, he _misses_ this, having Dean around, doing nothing or doing mundane things, like making dinner – it's all much more bearable with Dean there.

Dinner conversation stays around the familiar, like what things Dean's been hunting lately and Dad’s current obsession. Eventually, though, Dean asks Sam what's new with him.

For the time it takes him to chew a mouthful of stuffing, Sam contemplates actually telling Dean the truth, but instead, he sidesteps the college applications working their way through the country by mail. “Well, there’s a girl....”

“A girl? Do tell, Sammy.”

“Her name’s Julia. She's in a few of my classes and she's my chem lab partner.”

Dean leans in. “And? What’s she look like? Bet she’s hot, isn’t she?”

Sam blushes a little, feels the pink spread up his neck and into his cheeks as he answers, “Yeah, she’s pretty hot.”

“Yeah? Of course she is. Gotta be, to think she stands a chance." Dean punches Sam lightly on the shoulder.

The conversation dwindles, though – Dean's not asking any more questions and seems to draw inwards, nibbling slowly at the food on his plate – which serves to confuse the hell out of Sam.

Why’d Dean even bother asking if he doesn’t care about the answer? Sam’s seen other girls in the past, a handful of them spread over faraway towns, and Dean’s never reacted like this before. Granted, Sam never really made it past just a couple of dates with anyone, something he’s always blamed on them quickly figuring out he wasn’t normal.

Dean’s still quiet, busy chewing and staring at his plate, like the answer to the meaning of life lies in the pool of gravy there, and Sam continues to wonder what’s going on. Is Dean upset that Sam's seeing somebody? Jealous that Sam has the chance to build something with someone, while Dean’s too busy to get a girlfriend of his own since he’s always on the road?

Well, Sam isn’t the one who left, isn’t the one who's constantly gone. So he decides that he doesn’t care, just finishes his meal, and lets the silence build.

Later that night, Dean’s still quiet and Sam’s bored, wishing he had someone to talk to about Dean. He thinks about calling Julia to see if she wants to hang out. But Julia’s busy with her family. Plus, he’s not even sure what he would say to her, how he could explain what’s bothering him. Why would he talk to the person who’s caused this rift, especially when, really, he barely knows her? Filling her in on any part of his relationship with Dean would probably have her backing away slowly.

Anyway, it’s not really Julia he wants to talk to about this – it’s Dean. Dean who’s watching an old Christmas movie marathon, drinking way too much egg nog and rum, and pushing Sam away.

He doesn’t make the call.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
OCTOBER 1995  
ROCK SPRINGS, WYOMING

Sam and Dean are both accustomed to seeing their father passed out – occasionally the result of an overload of booze, but usually just because of too little sleep. One night they found him slumped over in the lone armchair in his motel room when they went to say goodnight. Sam removed John’s boots and socks while Dean lifted him to take off his overshirt. Each having thrown one large arm over their shoulders, they did their best to gently lug him over to the bed, as he cracked an eye and murmured his thanks.

Sure that John was out for the count, Dean suggested they have a little fun of their own. There was a toolshed or something behind the motel; they made their way over to it, crunching as quietly as possible through the autumn leaves Dean leaned up against the back of the shed, pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter out of his pocket, and handed a cigarette to Sam.

“Seriously?” Sam said, kind of appalled yet buzzing with an undercurrent of excitement.

“Yeah, Sammy. Don’t be such a chickenshit. You’ll like it, I promise.” Dean rubbed a hand through Sam’s shaggy hair. With his lips pursed and Zippo in hand, Dean leaned over to light Sam's first.

“Just breathe it in and then let it out.”

Sam did exactly that and promptly began to hack up a lung. Dean laughed and said, “That’s it. Exactly.” He patted Sam’s back and let his hand linger, rubbed soft circles until the coughing had subsided.

“Thanks, Dean. But no thanks,” Sam said. He chucked his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out. Still he watched as Dean finished, and he leaned into him, more than happy to keep his brother company.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
JANUARY 2001  
CHARLES CITY, IOWA

Sam sits in his study hall, fidgeting with his fingers and tapping out a rhythm with his foot, unable to focus on studying a thing. His probability and statistics text and notebook are laid out on the desk, as he’d been attempting to do some practice problems, and on top of that is his economics book. Not a single page has been turned since he opened it.

He can’t focus on confidence intervals or opportunity costs. All he can think about is Dean.

Where is Dean right now? Is he on the road, driving to some new case? Is he in some nondescript motel room, attempting to do some research without Sam or Dad’s help, or sharpening his knives and meticulously cleaning his guns? Or, worse yet, is he actually in the middle of a hunt, perhaps chopping the head off a succubus or chasing a werewolf down an alley with his silver bullet loaded Beretta in hand?

Sam doesn’t know, and he can’t shake the nagging thoughts. One thing he does know, though, is that Dean shouldn’t be alone today – he should be with Sam on his birthday.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
MAY 1996  
NORTH ANSON, MAINE

Sam wasn’t expecting anything special for his thirteenth birthday. Birthdays don’t mean much to the Winchesters, so it was just a regular old day. Which was why he was surprised when he entered their ramshackle house to the smell of fresh baking. What in the world had Dean gotten into?

He shuffled through the living room toward the kitchen, making his way closer to the source of the delicious smell, and when he got to the kitchen doorway, he couldn’t believe the sight before him. There was Dean, looking like he’d gotten into a fight with the cookie monster – chocolate icing all over his face and flour covering his shirt – standing in front of a misshapen cake.

Finally, the look of terror on Dean’s face broke as he said, “Hey, Sammy. Happy birthday, big guy.”

Sam burst out laughing, could not help himself. And that didn’t seem to please Dean at all.

But Sam’s day was made. After he gathered some of the icing off Dean’s face and licked it from his finger, they sat together at the little round table in the center of the kitchen to eat the cake. It tasted like pure shit, but it was the best damn thing Sam thought he’d ever had. And it was one of the best birthdays he could remember.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
FEBRUARY 2001  
CHARLES CITY, IOWA

Another school night, and it's just like every other: Sam's left to his own devices, and he's bored out of his mind. Dad's at “home base” sometimes, but not often. Ninety percent of the time, Sam spends his evenings by himself.

After the walk home, he works on his masses of homework, sitting at the lone table in the house. It takes about an hour to finish his bio lab report, by hand, and then he spends another reading his history text.

Kraft Dinner for supper, like most nights, eaten in front of the television. Thank God he has a television at his disposal, regardless of the fact that the bunny ears only pick up three and a half channels, because without it, he's pretty sure he'd have lost his mind by now.

There's nothing on TV anymore, though, and not a thing to do, so he pulls a tattered school copy of Vonnegut's _Cat’s Cradle_ from his bag and slumps lower on the couch.

Sam's not sure when he fell asleep, but he wakes to a shrill scream and a lower-pitched grunt. It takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the living room – when did he shut the TV off? – but as things slowly come into focus, the sources of the sounds becomes clear. The room's not big, but it's apparently large enough to hold two monsters and two victims. Near the kitchen door is Julia, still screaming, bound and hung up by her wrists with what's got to be a spirit dragging a bloody knife down her jawline.

Sam drags his eyes away from the shallow cuts already running along her arms when he hears another grunt. And there's Dean, same strung up position but with a different ghost torturing him, this one favoring what looks like a meat hook, and from the looks of him, a brother of the first. Dean’s eyes meet Sam's, and they're wide with terror; he's immobilized, and he's not going to get out of this himself.

Sam turns to look again at Julia, and she's crying, pleading, "Sam. Please, Sam, help me." But he'll be better off if he's got Dean to help him, and he knows how Dean's worst fear is being bound, unable to move or help. Sam reaches into his bag to grab the canister of salt he keeps there and stands, begins to walk, slowly and quietly, towards the ghost taunting Dean. He sees the look in Dean's eyes change from terrified to thankful....

And that's when he truly wakes. The ghosts are gone, were never really there at all, and the quiet voices coming from the TV are doing nothing to drown out Sam's heavy breathing. _Fuck_ , that was a bad dream. He's not used to nightmares, doesn't have them often, and has never had one like that.

Sam shuts the TV off and makes his way up to his bedroom, heart still pounding as he undresses and slips between the sheets. His mind keeps slipping back to the dream – what the hell was that? Julia and Dean, both strung up and looking for his help? He doesn't usually like to read too deep into the dreams he does remember, but he can't shake the feeling that this one has to have meant something.

Fucking _Dean_ , never around, and yet plaguing Sam's thoughts near constantly, even when he's asleep. Sam hates it, wishes he could get him out of his head, wishes he hadn't felt compelled to save Dean before Julia. He doesn't even know what that means, but he’s sure it can't mean anything good about his feelings for her.

His worries begin to recede and are seamlessly replaced by resentment towards Dean, and Dad. Usually, when Sam wakes up worried or scared, Dean’s in the bed on the other side of the room.

Sam still hasn’t gotten used to feeling this alone.

He doesn’t really miss his father; he’s used to John being gone. What he does have a problem with is the way he orders Dean around. But Dean’s his own person, he could stand up to Dad, and that makes Sam flat-out _pissed_ at Dean. It's bullshit how Dean just takes it, every time.

Another thing that becomes unignorable during those moments of clarity just before sleep is that Sam doesn’t really care all that much about Julia. He realizes that he’s only been trying to _make_ himself care. Since he’s being honest with himself, he decides he’ll be honest with her, too. He’ll bumble through the breakup, just like every other one he’s ever been involved in, because he’ll have no good reason for initiating it, at least none that he’ll be able to explain to her.

He's drifting, thoughts of anger and loneliness and the impending breakup causing him to curl up tight, and the last thing he thinks about before his mind gives in and let's go to sleep is how fucking thankful he is that he sent off all those college applications. There’s nothing keeping him here, and it’s not as though Dad and Dean care about him, so they won’t give a damn if he goes away to school.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
AUGUST 1997  
PORTAGE, MICHIGAN

Sam and Dean had a bit of a tradition. Every time John would leave for a trip they’d stay up that whole first night, exercising their freedom by watching the crappiest horror movies they could find.

One night, after _The Wolf Man_ , Dean announced that snacks were in order. Sam followed him into the kitchen to watch as Dean set two pots on the stove and added butter to each. To the larger pot he threw in a mound of corn kernels and to the second some corn syrup and a few squares of caramel fudge that he’d grabbed from the 7-11 down the street.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam asked.

“Making caramel corn, you idiot. What does it look like?”

Sam left Dean to it, went back to the living room to add a couple fresh logs to the crackling fire they had going in the wood-stove and pop in the next tape. Shortly afterwards, Dean was back, gigantic silver bowl of freshly made caramel corn in hand.

“What's up next, Sammy?”

“I put in _Poltergeist_.”

“Perfect.”

They settled in, each taking turns grabbing handfuls of corn and stuffing their mouths full. Dean’s arm was slung over the back of the couch, and Sam was turned toward him for better access to the bowl. The popcorn didn't taste like something you'd get at a county fair, but it was homemade and good, sticky caramel stringing between the kernels and getting stuck to their hands.

On the screen, an old, knotted tree reached slowly through a window, then startlingly grabbed a young boy – Sam jumped in his seat. His automatic response was to reach out to Dean, slamming his hand on to Dean's thigh. But this time, Dean's hand was in the way, and Sam accidentally grabbed on, tight. He looked over at Dean, eyes wide with fright, and Dean just laughed.

Dean turned his hand so their palms were touching and gently squeezed. "It's okay, Sam. Just a little spirit-driven tree, nothing to be afraid of." Sam squeezed back, and when Dean didn't immediately pull away, he didn't either.

They were near the end of the movie, and perhaps the fun of the tradition was fading as he grew up, but Sam didn't feel like staying up all night anymore. He felt like leaning into Dean and letting his brother's warmth help settle his nerves. So he did.

Sam felt himself drifting off, totally comfortable next to Dean, and he didn't really care. He felt one more sure squeeze of Dean’s hand, and though he was losing consciousness quickly and therefore not entirely sure, he thought he felt Dean's other hand come down to rest in his hair.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
APRIL 2001  
CHARLES CITY, IOWA

Sam listed Bobby Singer's address as his own on all of his college applications. He doesn't know how long they’re going to stay in Charles City, and he isn't willing to risk having any acceptance letters getting lost in the mail. He does know that John and Bobby aren't talking these days, though, so he figures his secret is safe.

To get ahold of Bobby, Sam walks into town to use a pay phone. Glad when the call is answered, he lets out a sigh of relief and leans back against the wall of the booth.

"Hey, Bobby! How’s it going?"

"Sam! Good to hear from you, boy. It's going well, going well. How about you?"

"Things are pretty good. Kinda sick of being alone all the time, to be honest, but otherwise I’m all right."

"Tell me about it, kid. I hear ya." Bobby gives a grunt of commiseration. "So why don't you just cut to the chase, Sam, and ask me what you wanna ask."

"Well–" Sam has a hard time finding the words. His whole future is hinged on Bobby's answer. "Have you gotten anything for me? In the mail?"

Sam hears the sound of papers rustling in the background, _holy shit_. "Got a couple things here for ya, actually," Bobby says, the shuffling of paper still audible. Sam's heart is beating hard, his breathing's rushed. He opens the door to the telephone booth to let in a little air and wipes his hands down the front of his jeans. What Bobby's about to say could–

"One letter from the University of Kansas, one from the University of California at Berkeley," Bobby heaves a sigh and continues, "And one from Stanford University."

Sam lets his breath out slowly. "How thick are they, Bobby?"

"They're thick all right, all of them. So, now what? You want me to open them, or what?"

"Yes, please. If you don't mind?"

"'Course I don't mind, boy. Not one bit."

Bobby reads the letters from KU and UC Berkeley to Sam first. Both acceptances, both full scholarships. Damn, Miss Pierce was right, and he had no idea.

There's a lengthy pause on Bobby's end, and Sam begins to get even more nervous. He doesn't know if Bobby knows that the letter from Stanford is the most important one, but it sure seems as though he does.

A cough comes through the line and then, "Last one's the same, Sam."

No way, he thinks. It can't be.

" _We would like to congratulate you on your admission to Stanford University commencing in the fall semester of 2001. We look forward to having you join our academic community. Enclosed in this package you will find details regarding your scholarship, which will cover 100% of tuition as well as room an–_ "

"Bobby!" Sam is ecstatic; he doesn't even know what to say. He focuses his efforts on getting his breathing back in check as Bobby says, "Congratulations, Sam. Knew you could do it."

"Thanks, Bobby. Thank you so much."

"Not me, boy. This was all you."

Sam promises to be in touch shortly to check for any more news, and they say their goodbyes.

On the walk back to the house Sam can barely contain himself. He's pretty sure he must look like an idiot, feels like his body is floating down the street on its own accord. He can't wait to tell someone, to share his news.

Then he realizes there isn't anyone to tell. The one person he wants to tell, he can’t. Not only because Dean isn't around, but because he doesn't want to hear it.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
JUNE 1999  
QUILCENE, WASHINGTON

Sam had found Dean smoking a joint down by the creek that ran behind the crap-hole of a house they were staying in one early summer evening, and Dean had insisted that Sam give it a try. So he did, trusting Dean's instincts more than his own. But he had a hard time getting it right, found he couldn't manage to take a large hit.

Dean came up with the devious idea to shotgun some of the smoke to Sam. Sam didn't know what Dean was talking about at first, but it didn't take long for him to get the picture. With Dean's palm warm on his thigh and his shoulder pressed tight against Sam's, Sam found himself anxious, and excited. And when he looked at Dean he thought he saw the same things reflected back at him.

During the first attempt, Dean had leaned in and put his hand to Sam's face. But it was Sam that closed the distance between them. Their lips met, firm but tentative, and Dean blew the still-warm smoke into Sam's mouth. After the release, Dean patted Sam on the back and let his hand linger. Sam had asked, "Another one?"

That time things were different. Sam emulated Dean's previous motion and brought his hand up to cup Dean's jaw. Planning the same move, Dean instead differentiated and wound his hand back and into the hair at the nape of Sam's neck. When their lips met again, it wasn’t the same, softer and more gentle. And Dean didn't pull away so quickly, but moved back only when Sam exhaled.

It was as though flood gates had opened, the shotgunning of smoke revealing everything they both felt, to themselves and to each other, and the look of pure _want_ in Dean's eyes was enough to convince Sam that he wasn't the only one longing for more, at least not in that moment. All caution was thrown away as the boys leaned in to one another again, this time with no pretense of sharing marijuana smoke. They were both stoned, but that wasn't what caused Sam to keep his hand on Dean's jaw and smash their lips together. And it wasn't what caused Dean to twine his fingers into Sam's hair and pull him even closer, or why they stayed down by the creek for hours, into the night, bodies tight against each other, kissing and rolling and rutting, and eventually curling up together and passing out.

But the fact that they had both been high may have been why Sam woke up alone the next morning, chilled through and shivering, wondering where Dean had gone, wondering if they'd made the biggest mistake of their lives.

A mistake that was never even acknowledged.

\- - - - - - - - - -

MAY 2001  
CHARLES CITY, IOWA

John continues to insist that he's making headway with what he's hunting around Charles City, but occasionally he leaves the case to help out a friend. This particular time he thought he'd be gone for a while, helping Pastor Jim deal with an increase in demonic activity in the town next to his, and for some reason John had gotten Dean to come back to keep Sam company while he’d be gone. Sam is affronted; he doesn't need to be _babysat_. Dad's seriously deluding himself if he actually thinks he's around a lot anyway. Yet Sam can't deny that he's looking forward to spending some time with Dean, even if Sam is upset with him. It's been too long.

The night John leaves, Sam and Dean end up doing the usual: watching slasher flicks. They've seen them all before, but that doesn't stop Dean from insisting that they keep this one thing going.

The credits just begin to roll after _Friday the 13th_ when Dean stretches and says, "Isn't this awesome, Sam? Just you and me, doing what we do?"

Sam can't help it if he's feeling frustrated with Dean. Ever Dad's little soldier and always following orders, only coming back to see Sam when it's what he's ordered to do. Throughout the movie, Sam was working it all over in his mind, becoming more and more annoyed, and it colors his response. "This isn't what we _do_ , Dean. It's what we did."

"What we _did_?" Dean turns to face Sam on the couch and brings his arms across his chest. "What the hell's that supposed to even mean?"

"What do you think it means, Dean? We haven't done a thing together all year. You're just too goddamn busy to hang out with me."

"Busy, Sam?" Dean raises an eyebrow, and Sam just glares at him. "You think I like being so _busy_? You think I _like_ being on the road all the time? By myself?"

"Yeah, actually, I do. If you didn't, why the hell are you so willing to do it?"

"What the fuck, Sam? You actually think I like it." Dean stands, arms taut at his sides.

Sam follows Dean up, crowds forward into his space. "Yeah, I do. You don't say shit otherwise, so why wouldn't I think that?"

"I don't say shit because it's what I've got to do!"

"Oh, what you've _got_ to do. Because Dean could never question an order from Dad."

Sam doesn't even see it coming. Up comes Dean's fist, catching him in the jaw, and the force of it knocks him into the couch. He stumbles as he recovers and thinks, _fuck_ Dean, if that's how he wants to do this.

Sam's retaliation is quick. He closes the distance and throws both hands up to Dean's shoulders, shoving him hard to gain a little leverage. Dean’s shaken, so Sam has no problem getting in a jab to his stomach, but Dean’s fast. Before Sam even realizes that Dean’s recovered, he finds his legs kicked out from under him. The breath is driven from his body as his back slams into the floor, and it fucking hurts. Dean is on him before he's had a moment to catch his breath, but by some miraculous bout of adrenaline, Sam manages to get in one more punch. He swings up and connects with Dean's nose.

Dean's hands fly up to his face but his lower body is still in action. His hips are locked down tight, and Sam can't get an inch. There’s a spike of guilt at the trickle of blood leaking from Dean’s nose, but he never stops struggling against Dean’s hold. He tries every escape technique Dad’s ever drilled into him, but Dean knows all the same tricks.

Dean's breath is coming faster from the effort of holding Sam down. "Miss you so much," he huffs.

"Shut the fuck up, Dean. Don’t even try to tell me that. A hunt comes up and you can get out of here, and you _do_ , fast as you can, every fucking time." Sam’s voice is hoarse with anger. He’s still fighting to get free, yet he finds himself less invested in the actions as Dean’s body presses closer to his. Dean's eyes have gone dark and wide, and Sam's suddenly confused. Is that anger, or...?

"That is _not_ how it is."

Suddenly Sam isn't questioning what it is he sees in Dean's eyes. It's everything – Dean's love for Sam and proof that he does miss him – it's what he'd seen two summers ago down by the creek. It's _want_.

And Sam wants, too.

He tried to tell himself that he didn't. He tried to convince himself that attraction had nothing to do with the intense way he’s been missing his brother. But he's being honest with Dean, so he may as well be honest with himself: he's wanted Dean ever since their lips first touched, and probably a lot longer than that.

Now, Dean's right in his face, breath creeping across Sam's lips, pupils blown even wider than they were just a moment ago. Just like last time, it's going to have to be Sam to close the deal.

So he does. Dean has his lower body locked down tight, so Sam brings himself up and into Dean. Dean groans into Sam's mouth, and Sam takes advantage of it, swiping his tongue across Dean's lower lip. If Dean had been unwilling to admit that this was what he wanted, then that's what does him in. He parts his lips further and meets Sam's tongue with his own.

It feels just like the first time, but a lot better, actually – more clear, since this time they're sober. A second first kiss, and Sam is crazy glad he had the courage to tell Dean off tonight. If he'd only thought about using this tactic earlier.

But there are no regrets. Sam doesn't regret lost time, because he has Dean now. He’s got Dean’s hands in his hair, and Dean’s mouth on his, their tongues pushing and pulling, a slick slide back and forth.

Dean leans up to look at Sam. "Miss you so damn much." His breathing is ragged. He’s still got Sam pinned down, and Sam can feel Dean's length running hard alongside his own. He bucks his hips up the little he can, and that garners a quiet keening from Dean.

"Sam."

One word and Sam forgives Dean his absence. One more rut of hips and he forgets why he was even mad in the first place.

\---

  
Before Sam ended things with Julia, he actually thought about going all the way with her. He thought she seemed like the right person.

But she wasn't. Because the right person is Dean, and it always has been. He hasn't been able to admit that to himself, but, now, with Dean pressed up against him, there's no denying it. Dean's chest is shining from the sheen of sweat and it's heaving up and down, Sam feels it moving against his own. Sam has Dean's legs spread wide and is slotted between them.

"Come on, Sammy. Want you to."

Sam has prepped Dean thoroughly, took the time to fully enjoy the process, to make it as good for Dean as he could. And he's only delaying things a little – can't seem to calm the nervous swell inside him – because this is Dean, and he's about to fuck him.

Sam never imagined what it would be like, couldn't have. He only allowed himself to think about the possibility very occasionally that summer they kissed, not since, and even then, only ever real late at night, on the cusp between reality and sleep, all alone in his bed with only his hand as company. But even his most vivid thoughts of what this could be like hadn't begun to come near the actual thing.

Dean's body below him, _around_ him, feels absolutely surreal. The noises Dean makes as Sam begins to work into him, as he gets close, and as he comes are the most amazing things Sam has ever heard. How it feels to pump into Dean, over and over, and to release inside him, Sam can't even begin to describe it to himself.

They fuck first right there on the living room floor, stupid fight abandoned. Later, they make their way up to the bedroom and almost through the night, completing their tradition, only this time they spend it sucking and rutting, kissing and fucking into the wee hours, rather than watching films.

When Sam wakes, the slant of the sun indicating late morning, the first thing he notices is the smell of Dean and of sex. The second thing he notices is the absence of warmth at his side. He rolls onto his side, expecting to see that Dean has shifted further away at some point during sleep. But all he sees is an empty bed, top sheet flung aside and bottom one wrinkled from where Dean had laid.

Sam doesn't have to go downstairs to know that Dean's duffle is no longer sitting in the foyer where he'd dumped it last night. And he doesn't have to look out the window to know that the Impala is no longer parked in the drive.

It’s just like the first time – Dean’s left him, alone.

\---

  
A few days later, Sam calls Bobby up again. He gets the news that he's been accepted to two more schools, and he also gets word that Stanford has sent him another package: information about course selections, housing, and a form that has to be submitted as acknowledgement of his planned attendance. The letters from all the other schools are thrown in the trash without Sam ever having seen them, because only the one matters.

All it takes is a little convincing and the promise that he'll visit sometime during his first year to get Bobby to complete the form and put it in the mail.

Sam hasn't seen a single piece of paper from the school or signed a thing, but he doesn't have to. Everything is set, regardless.

\---

  
Sam's high school graduation is at the end of the month, and it's already warm this time of year, looking to be a hot summer. There's a large stage set up on the football field with modest decorations and hundreds of chairs facing it, filled with his fellow students' family and friends. As Sam sits with all of the other seniors, he can't help but think about how anti-climactic this whole thing is, at least for him. Here he is, sweltering in a blue polyester gown, surrounded by hundreds, probably thousands, of people. He's been with these kids the entire year, and still he feels totally isolated.

Sam walks across the stage when his name is called, the yellow sash around his neck marking his honors status fluttering in the wind. He shakes the principal's hand, accepts his diploma, and, just like everyone else before him, pastes on a smile and looks out to the crowd for the photo-op. His smile is fake, however, and there's a smattering of applause, but no whoops or howls from family members, no whistles from good friends. There’s no one taking Sam’s picture.

After the caps are thrown, the students break up, milling around the masses that are separating into little clusters. Sam walks around, aimlessly, feeling yet again what a let down this whole ceremony has been. Cameras flash all around him, and flowers get passed, and hugs are being had – not by him, though.

He's glad when he runs into Julia, someone to talk to, at least. She's with her family, and though Sam had only met them a couple of times, they seem thrilled to see him.

"Congratulations, Sam," Mr. Edwards says as he gives him a solid clap on the back. Following that, he's taken up into a large hug by Mrs. Edwards, who backs away as she asks, "Where's your father?"

Sam doesn't really know how to answer that, not really sure where his dad is, actually, just sure he couldn't make it today, too many other important things to do involving monsters and the beasts of the night, one son of a bitch in particular, so he says, "He had to work." They all give him a look of pity mixed with sadness, but keep their smiles plastered on, "Well," and "Okay," and "That's too bad," their responses.

Next thing Sam knows, Mr. Edwards is asking him if he's got any plans for the summer, anything lined up before he heads away to Stanford in the fall, and he explains that he doesn't, since he doesn't really have any connections in town.

"Well, son, that's not true, you've got me. What do you say you help out on my farm for the summer? I've got tons of work I could use your help with. Even if you don't have any farmhand experience, you're a smart young boy who's got a good set of muscles on him, and I'm sure you'll be able to handle it."

Sam can't hide his glee, his smile spanning across his face, because he was sure this summer was going to be ten times more dull than the school year had been, but a summer job would definitely help. "Sure, Mr. Edwards, I'd love to." He feels Julia rub a hand softly along his lower back and looks down to her, where she's smiling wide – he's so lucky that she understood when he ended things, because he’s glad to have a friend in her, someone who can be happy for him.

"That's great, son. Today's Thursday, right? How 'bout I see you bright and early Monday morning at our place?"

"Sounds perfect," Sam says as he reaches out to shake Mr. Edwards' extended hand. "Thanks so much. I'll see you then."

Sam says his goodbyes and promises to see them soon and makes his way out of the crowd, since there's not a single person left for him to talk to here. Yeah, he'd been a part of some things this year, but he hadn't really made any friends like he'd expected to. Some, on the surface, but it's as though people can sense that there's something different about him, that he's not really like them, and they always seem wary to get too close.

In the past, he's been fine with that. He always had Dean to fill the void, his best friend who took up the space of plenty. It's times like this, though, that he's resentful of who he is and how it limits him. Not only does his Winchester upbringing leave him with no friends to say goodbyes and good wishes to, but it's why he is all alone in this throng of people – not a single family member here to say that they're proud.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
SEPTEMBER 2000  
CHARLES CITY, IOWA

They'd been in Charles City for just under a week the first time Dad ordered Dean on a hunt – a chupacabra, just over the state line. Both Dad and Dean left that night.

At first, Sam was thrilled. All of a sudden he had more space to himself than he'd ever known. He made a grilled cheese sandwich to eat and vegged out in front of the TV for the night, enjoying being able to actually pick what channel he watched himself.

It wasn't as though he was scared to be alone, not at all. He went to bed with a rifle tucked under the mattress and a blade on the bedside table, but that was pretty standard. He did find the room sort of bizarrely quiet, however. He wasn't used to sleeping in a room all alone.

Dean wasn't gone long, back after just two nights, but by then Sam had already realized that he didn't much like this new arrangement.

Sam was used to Dean's company, used to Dean's annoying remarks and hogging of the TV remote, his habits of chewing with his mouth open and leaving all his dirty laundry laying around. He was used to Dean nagging him to train, always wanting to go for runs or practice shooting or sparring. And without Dean there, the weekend went by extremely slowly.

Sam was anxious. Dad said they were going to be here for a while, and if he kept sending Dean on hunts, it looked like Sam was going to have to get used to spending a lot of time alone.

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
AUGUST 2001  
CHARLES CITY, IOWA

Spending the long summer days working at the Edwards’ farm works out great, giving Sam some cash and something to do with his time. But nights pass exactly how they did during the school year, alone, and now with no homework to occupy his mind.

Sam often finds himself moping and thinking of other summers, times when he and Dean would fill the days and warm nights with all sorts of fun things. He tries to convince himself that the reason he misses Dean so badly has nothing to do with what happened between them when he called Dean out on his bullshit. But he has a really hard time of it. He missed Dean before anything happened, but things are far worse now. He misses his brother, he misses his best friend, and since that night, when things changed, he doesn't even know exactly what it is that he misses – but he knows that it fucking hurts.

How the hell could Dean even do that to him? How could he have held Sam that night, murmured things about how much he missed Sam, how he didn't want to leave, and then do just that the next morning?

Sam doesn't understand, but when he thinks long and hard about it, which is a fair chunk of the time, he realizes the answer's pretty clear. Dean lied.

Clearly, Dean doesn't give a shit about him. Or he never would have left him that way, never would have left him in the first place. If Dean cared about Sam, he would never have stayed away for the entire summer.

It's obvious to Sam: Dean doesn't feel the same way, he doesn't miss Sam, and he doesn't care.

So Sam doesn't have to care either. He doesn't care so much that he makes up his mind, one hundred percent. He knew he was going to go to Stanford, was going to take off, but there was a small part of him that was holding out. A small part of him was just waiting for Dean to come back, for Dean to come back and promise that he'd never leave again. And if that had happened, Sam wouldn't go.

But it hasn't, so Sam is going.

\---

  
Sam's decided that tonight is the night he's going to tell Dad that he's leaving. But, first, he's going to tell Dean.

Both Dad and Dean are back in Charles City, just for a couple of days, Dad had said. He seems to be under the impression that since Sam's done with high school and his summer job is over, Sam's going to pack up his things and hit the road with Dean. Dad thought they'd have a nice weekend, the three of them, before they all get back to hunting.

But what Dad doesn't know is that Sam _is_ going to pack up his things, but he isn't going to start hunting with Dean – he's going to get on a Greyhound, a forty-five hour ride that will take him to Palo Alta, California.

Classes start in just over a week, freshman orientation just under, and Sam already has his ticket bought.

Dean and Sam are standing by the sink after dinner, cleaning up. Dean's got his hands in the soapy water, washing the plates and glasses, one by one. While Sam stands by and dries, he tries to talk himself into actually telling Dean. He's gone over this in his head at least a hundred times, thought he'd already chosen the right words to use to convince Dean that this is the best thing for him, and that he should come with Sam. But, now, as he watches Dean out of the corner of his eye, he can't believe how nervous he is. What if Dean says no? What if Dean's so upset he never talks to Sam again?

After he finishes with this plate, Sam thinks, then I'll tell him. But then Dean finishes with that plate, and the next, so Sam thinks, I'll tell him when he's done washing all of the silverware.

But, eventually, Dean's finished with all of the dishes. As Sam stands beside him finishing the drying, Dean moves to put things away. Sam's pretty sure that there's sweat dripping down his hairline, trickling down his back, and that maybe his hands are even shaking a little, so it doesn't surprise him when Dean looks over and asks, "Sam, what's going on?"

"Nothing.” He's got his hands in front of himself at his waist, twisting at one finger and then the next, and for the life of him, he can't get himself to look up, can't get himself to look Dean in the face. "I just– I've got to tell you something."

Finally, he finds the courage to meet Dean's eyes, and they're huge, wide open and full of fear. It’s obvious that Dean knows this isn't going to be good.

"What is it? What've you got to tell me?"

At just that moment, Dad walks into the kitchen, most likely to grab another Bud, but he stops, stands in the doorway and looks back and forth between the boys.

"What's going on?" John asks in a tone that demands to be told the truth.

Dean shuffles a few feet towards John. "Sammy was just about to tell me something."

"And what was that, Sam?"

"Well, Dad–" Sam stammers. Fuck, he was supposed to be able to tell Dean first, but here it is, and he has to go for it, balls out. "I just, I was going to tell Dean, and then you, that I'm leaving."

"Leaving?"

"Yeah, leaving. I've– umm. I've accepted an offer to go to Stanford." Damn, he's said it. "And I'm going."

By now, Dean's moved all the way across the room. He's standing at Dad's side, a little behind, as though he's trying to shelter himself. Sam knew Dean wasn't going to take this well, but he wasn't really expecting this. Dean's mouth is in a firm line, twitching, like he's holding back, and his eyes are glassy. He doesn't say anything.

"Like hell you are," John says, straightening himself and clenching his fists at his side, hard, like it means something.

"Yes, I am."

"Sam, you’re a Winchester. Have you forgotten what that means?" John's voice is calm, but it's scary. There's an undercurrent of rage Sam's never heard, and he's standing completely still, almost unnaturally so, with his hands clamped so tightly Sam can see his knuckles whitening.

"Maybe I don't _want_ to be a hunter, Dad. Maybe I just want to be a normal person!" And Sam's really starting to go off, but this is not just any other fight with his dad. He can feel the anger surging through him, he is _not_ going to let himself be controlled, goddammit, he is _not_. "I wish I didn't know any of this. I wish this wasn't how I grew up, always fucking alone. You were always gone, and nothing was normal, and my whole life I've hated it!"

Still, no one is saying a thing. Sam doesn't understand why Dean's so quiet, why he's still just standing there, silent. Sam can see the tears welling up in his eyes, even though not a single one has fallen, so that must mean something. But why isn't he saying anything?

So Sam says, "And then this summer, it's like I didn't even have a family! So why the hell shouldn't I leave? I'm an adult now, and I can make my own fucking decisions. I don't care what either of you think, this is what I've decided. I'm going."

They all just stand there, the tension in the room thick, palpable. Sam can feel tiny tremors running down his arms and to his toes, and he looks to Dean, hoping that maybe, just maybe, Dean will back him up. But Dean's not going to. He's looking back at Sam, his lips trembling. Sam really isn't sure what's worse, the fact that Dean's got tears in his eyes at all or that not a single one has spilled.

It's too difficult to maintain eye contact with Dean, so Sam looks back to Dad. Sam has seen his father angry more times than he could possibly count, but he has _never_ seen this level of hatred in his eyes, at least not when he was looking at either of his sons. And now it’s clear why John was silent – he was just waiting for Sam to finish.

"If this is what you decide to do, if you leave, you can _stay gone_. Don't come back, Sam, I mean it. I don't _ever_ want to see you again."

Everything breaks at that. Sam looses his hands, lets go of the breath he was holding, and turns to Dean, but that's when Dean takes off. He bolts around and runs through the house. Sam looks at his dad and listens as the front door slams shut so hard he swears he hears the wood splinter. The look in John's eyes is terrifying, and Sam's aware that this might just be the last time he ever sees his dad's face, but he doesn't care. He's off, he's got to go talk to Dean.

\---

  
Sam can see Dean running down the road, away from town, and he's got a good start on him, but Sam follows. He picks up pace and slowly gains, but he doesn't get too close. He knows Dean can hear him, but wants to leave some space, let Dean go as far as he needs. They go for a long while, two miles by Sam's estimate, before Dean veers off, leaves the shoulder of the road, and heads down a path that takes them into the woods.

Dean slows down and Sam does as well, they're at a jog now. Being the end of August, some leaves have already started to fall, and they're crunching underfoot, but that's all there is for noise – it's quiet in the forest, still dense with foliage. Dean slows even more, walking now, and Sam can hear Dean’s breath heaving even over his own. They've come into some sort of clearing – not total emptiness, but there are a few felled trees, like the area is just unlucky enough to have been hit by lightning more than once.

Eventually, Dean sits on one of the fallen logs, still facing away from Sam and with his back rigid. But Sam needs to talk to Dean, so he sits next to him. He looks over and sees that the tears are streaming, now. Dean's face is a slick mess, and his chest is rising and falling with heavy inhalations.

A choking noise escapes Dean's throat as he says, "Why didn't you tell me, Sammy?"

 _Fuck_ , Sam hates seeing Dean this upset. But, really, where the hell is this even coming from?

"Tried to. Just now."

"I mean earlier. I mean, what the fuck? You must've been planning this shit for months."

Yeah, he has been planning this for months. He doesn't know what to say, though, so he stays quiet.

Dean’s wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt. "How long?"

"Since November."

"Jesus Christ!"

"When was I even supposed to tell you, Dean? Where the hell have you even been?” Sam’s trying to stay calm, not to shout. “Pretty sure it's been everywhere but here."

Finally, Dean looks over at Sam as he says, "Fuck, Sam. You know that I wanted to be here with you. I didn't have a choice."

"No? You didn't have a choice?" Now it's Sam's turn to look away, and he stares straightforward, through the trees. "That's fucking bullshit, Dean. You _did_ have a choice. And you sure as hell had the choice to just leave me in the middle of the night! To never once come back! The whole summer!" For some reason it's easier to say these things without looking at Dean, and he realizes that his voice has risen, that he's yelling, and that if there's anyone around within a mile's radius, they'll hear everything. But he doesn't care and continues, "How did you think that would make me feel? What was I supposed to think, Dean? That you _care_ about me?"

Dean reaches over to lay his palm on Sam's knee. "I do."

"Yeah, right," Sam says, no longer yelling after getting that out. Now he's just faced with disbelief.

"I do. You don't know how much I do. You have no idea...."

Sam looks back at Dean, needs Dean to look into his eyes while he says, "Then come with me."

Dean’s eyes go wide in disbelief. "Come with you? And do what exactly?"

"Be with me," Sam says, and now it's his turn to put his hand on Dean's knee. "Have a normal life. With me."

Dean just scoffs, but he doesn't make a move to remove Sam's hand.

"Seriously, Dean. You can get a job, and I'll go to school. We can make a life."

"I have a life." Dean turns ever so slightly away from Sam, appearing to shut down. "This is what I do."

"It doesn't have to be." Sam slides his hand higher along Dean's leg and squeezes. He is _not_ letting Dean shut him out.

"I want it to be! This is who I am!" Dean grabs Sam's hand to throw it off, but Sam's quick, and he turns his wrist to grab ahold of Dean's. He yanks Dean forward at the same time that he leans in, and he slams his mouth into Dean's. He needs Dean to know how he feels, and he tries to say it all with the press of his lips.

Dean is resisting, but Sam's not giving up that easily. _God_ , he's missed this. Finally he feels Dean start to give. He's relaxing, and he lets Sam get his hands on him. He pulls Dean in until they're tight against one another on the fallen tree, and suddenly everything feels urgent. Sam rushes to get Dean's pants undone, pulls at his belt and then the zipper, and Dean grabs at his hands like he's going to try to stop him. But then Dean stands, pulling Sam up with him. He looks at Sam, hard, and squeezes their hands together as he turns around. "Can't watch, Sammy."

Sam doesn't know why Dean would say that or what he even means, but he leans Dean down and bows over him, spreads his hands under the back of Dean’s shirt as he kisses and nips up his neck. He sucks Dean’s earlobe between his teeth as he lowers their jeans, then kisses more gently just below as he gets Dean ready.

Though the preparation was gentle, the sex is not. This time is nothing like the first. It's not soft, at all, but desperate. It’s hard and fast and over quickly, Dean coming over Sam's hand and bringing Sam down with him. It’s good, but painful in more ways than one, and the whole while not a word is said, grunts and groans the only sounds verbalizing anything between them.

When it’s over, they make meager attempts at cleaning up and straightening their clothes before sinking wordlessly down to the ground, folding into each other in the underbrush and fallen leaves. The one thing that is like the last time is that Dean clings to the closeness, settling into Sam and extending his hands to touch.

Sam's so thankful that Dean's opened up, that he's letting him wrap his arms around him. He presses small kisses just under Dean's jaw and down his neck, and after a few moments of shaking through the aftershocks together, he says, "Dean, I need you to come with me. Miss you so much."

Dean breathes in, sharply, but Sam continues, "Come on. You know you don't want to be apart anymore. We need to be together, Dean. We have to–"

He's cut off by Dean's jagged movement out of his arms. Dean stands, looks down at Sam with eyes that are wide and moist, and says, "Can't do this, Sam. I just can't do this."

Then Dean's off, again, walking away in the direction opposite from which they came.

\---

  
Sam sits on the forest floor, stunned and empty, for hours, judging by the movement of the sun in the sky, now sunk low. It's dark this deep in the forest, a purple gray that makes it difficult to see, but he gets up, regardless. As he makes his way back towards the road, Sam thinks about what Dean said: _I can't do this_.

When Sam gets back to the house, no one's there. John's truck is gone, so he's probably off at some bar, not enough liquor at the house to fix things. The Impala's there, but he knows Dean's not.

It doesn't matter. Sam makes his way into the house and realizes that this is the last time he'll ever enter through that door. He goes to his room and grabs his bags, one large duffel and the same backpack he's had for years.

Gathering all of his belongings and packing them up should feel more like something. It doesn’t. He stuffs his clothes into the duffel, which doesn't take long since Winchesters don't have large wardrobes, and after that there's not much else. From the bathroom he grabs his toiletries and from the living room a couple of books. Back in his bedroom he gathers together the last of his things, just a couple more favorite books and his boots. He puts his best knife and the only picture he has of his parents into the backpack, carefully, his two most prized possessions, along with his ID and the cash he's managed to save up this summer. Into the front pocket of the bag he throws the CD player that Dean got him for Christmas, which he's still thankful for, especially seeing as he’ll need it on the long bus ride.

The last thing he packs is something he hadn't planned on: one of Dean's shirts. He grabs a weather-worn Zeppelin tee from Dean's bag – it's sun-bleached to a dark, orangish-gray – and when he lifts it to his face and breathes in, he's overwhelmed. _Dean_. He doesn't know if he's ever going to get to smell this again. He slips it into his bag and grabs a shirt of his own, puts it in Dean's bag in place of the one he took.

If he's never coming back, he at least wants to leave Dean with something of his, some part of himself.

His final act in the house he's spent a whole year in is filling his canteen with water, and he will not miss the way the pipes moan as he does. He's got his coat on and both of his bags thrown over his shoulders, but he takes a moment to make sure he hasn't forgotten anything. Of course he hasn't, though; because there isn't anything to forget. Then he leaves the house, screen door squeaking as always.

As he walks down the road, towards town, he aims sullen kicks at stones, drawing this out. Periodically, he looks back down the road. He doesn’t want to admit it to himself, but he knows he's looking to see if Dean is coming. He hopes that maybe Dean's hiding somewhere, watching, waiting for Sam to leave before he gives in. Sam's moving, but slowly, walking backwards, holding on to this one last chance – for Dean to say he’ll come with him, or just to say goodbye.

But the road is quiet. There is no one there. Dean doesn't pop out of the shadows, he doesn't come strolling up towards Sam, bow-legged and oozing charm.

Sam looks back at the house, one more time, and thinks that it's not home. He's not leaving _home_ , and he didn't say a single goodbye, so he's not leaving _anybody_. Dean said that he cares, but Sam doesn't believe it, and he finally realizes that there was no point in hoping.

He turns and begins to walk along the shoulder, determined. He's leaving.

\- - - - - - - - - -

the end


End file.
